


Stressful Travels

by hydrangeamaiden



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Mild Angst, Secret Crush, Unresolved Romantic Tension, implied emotional trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22043359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeamaiden/pseuds/hydrangeamaiden
Summary: Quirrel takes Hornet and her siblings on a trip. It'd be great for them to get outside and see some other kingdoms. Nothing could go wrong, right? Right?
Relationships: Hornet/Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 71





	Stressful Travels

**Author's Note:**

> I was working on Purity is Fake and wrote like 1k words so I decided to take a break from writing a fic by writing a fic while thinking about writing another fic. This is from that otp prompt generator on neocities and the prompt was: 'Hornet gets into a heated argument with someone. Hornet begins threatening them, so Quirrel, picks up Hornet and carries/drags them out of the room before anyone gets hurt.'

Traveling, even under the best of circumstances, can cause a lot of stress. It is no wonder, then that Hornet has been on edge since arriving in this new kingdom. The Hollow Knight had the sense to hole themselves up in the inn, and Ghost was too excited about their new surroundings to be nervous, but Hornet looks on the verge of being physically sick. She who is always the first to break from the group has not left Quirrel’s side since they entered the marketplace, which is teeming with bugs and noise and everything that Hallownest doesn’t have.

Quirrel tries to distract her by pointing out a stall with fine silks, inwardly wondering if maybe this trip was a bad idea. At the same time, he doesn’t think it’s healthy to spend one’s entire life in a ruin, without any knowledge of the outside world.

“It feels strange, but not unpleasant,” Hornet remarks of the scarf in her hands. She predictably chose one in red, with lace filigree up the sides and tassels that glint in the sunlight. The shopkeeper, a Hercules beetle, isn’t impressed with her observations.

“Strange, huh? I’ll have you know that was woven from the _finest_ silk threads a tarantula can produce. It’s better than anything you could make,” he retorts, which is something that Quirrel would _never_ say to a spider, or to a potential paying customer, for that matter.

“I think I could,” Hornet scoffs, running a hand along the fabric. “How much for this?”

“400 Bits.”

Hornet turns to Quirrel. “How much is that in Geo?”

“I don’t know. It’s such an archaic currency, there’s no way of converting it.” As the two put their heads together and whisper, the shopkeeper begins to tap his claws on the counter.

“It’s a good deal, real cheap,” the shopkeeper says. Quirrel takes one look at his face, and recalls all the times that vendors had tried to pull a fast one on him because he was unfamiliar with the local currency, or very obviously a tourist and therefore easy to scam.

“250 Bits,” Hornet says, before Quirrel can stop her. The beetle, as if preparing for battle, straightens up.

“Absolutely not. 400.”

“300, then.” Hornet lays the scarf atop the counter, and crosses her arms. “I’ll not pay a single Bit more for this.”

“ _Horne_ _t_ ,” Quirrel hisses under his breath. This spider has a lot to learn about haggling, specifically when _not_ to do it. “You don’t have to buy it.”

“I’d be selling at a loss if I took that price,” the shopkeeper grunts. “And I’ll be damned if I give it to a lowly little urchin like you.”

“I wouldn’t want to wear this cheap cloth, anyhow. There’s no artistry in it at all.” And then Hornet, in true Hallownest fashion, points the business end of her needle at the beetle’s throat. “100 Bits, and I won’t flay your shell from your--”

“Hey! No!” Quirrel squeaks. He forces Hornet’s arm down, and puts an arm around her shoulders. He doesn’t know if it’s to protect the shopkeeper, who looks like he’s going to faint, or Hornet, who would not fare well with any kind of law enforcement. “That’s enough. Let’s go.”

When Hornet doesn’t immediately budge, he hooks his arm around her waist and half-carries, half-drags her from the stalls. Her indignant squeal would’ve been funny under other circumstances, and if she weren’t so seriously upset. It’s no wonder—even he wonders how to deal with conflict without just punching it. Peace wasn’t an option in Hallownest, both during _and_ after the Infection.

It’s a shame, though, that he only gets to hold her when he needs to restrain her. This thought comes to him as so inappropriate that he physically shakes his head to rid himself of it.

He’s more than a little disappointed, though, when they reach the lobby of the inn and he has to set her onto a chair. Hornet’s face is as red as her cloak, unfortunately from anger, and immediately curls her knees to her chest. Quirrel jogs to the adjoining cafe and returns with two cups of coffee. Hornet dispenses two packets of cream into hers, something that Quirrel finds endearing for some reason.

Something is wrong with him.

Hornet glares at him from over her cup, likely expecting a reprimand for her behavior. She almost chokes on her drink when Quirrel instead says, “That vendor was a real dickwad.”

“A _dickwad_ ,” Hornet repeats, sputtering and wiping her mouth. She runs a hand down her face, which is beginning to regain its natural color. “He speaks more like a brigand than a merchant. You should have let me cut him down.”

“But that’s not how things work around here. Or anywhere, for that matter...not unless you want to get arrested.” Quirrel gestures to the air. “You’d be considered a criminal yourself.”

The ensuing silence between them makes Quirrel wonder, once again, if he made a mistake by suggesting this trip. He had good intentions, but what are intentions worth if the outcome is her being hurt? He rubs a finger against the ceramic of the mug, which is starting to cool in his hands. He suddenly doesn’t have an appetite.

“I’m sorry,” Quirrel says at length. “I didn’t consider what it’d be like for you, coming to...to...”

“To an actual civilization?” says Hornet. Quirrel looks up to see her eyes boring into him. “It’s hard. Everything is so different from what I was used to, before the plague took everything. Of course it’s hard.”

There’s audible hurt in her voice, and Quirrel feels a pit in his stomach. With his memories erased, his life in Hallownest is little more than a bad dream. This is his life now, traveling in and out of kingdoms but always returning to that same corpse at the end of the day. In the process, he lost something vital that Hornet and her siblings have used to connect to each other. He does not regret his loss, but he’d be lying if being untethered couldn’t get lonely. Pill bugs are social creatures, after all.

“We have only been here for two days, but already I ache for home. I am not suited for this kind of life, even temporarily. I feel uprooted, and planted in toxic soil.” Hornet takes a long drink of her coffee, and sighs. “Do you understand?”

“I do.” Quirrel feels a knot in his throat. “Even someone like me feels homesick.”

And then Hornet admits for the first time since they’ve come here, “I want to go home.”

“Then we’ll go home. Tomorrow morning.”

Hornet sets her cup aside, and Quirrel thinks she’s going to go upstairs to join her sibling in self-imposed isolation. Instead, she puts her arms around Quirrel’s shoulders. For a moment, he stops breathing.

“Thank you, Quirrel,” she says when she pulls away. Quirrel damns himself for not hugging back. Her touch, light and soft, lingers on him long after she makes her retreat, and he’s still sitting there like a lovestruck fool.


End file.
